Perpendicular Parking
by theimaginaryslimshady
Summary: This is the story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down, and I became attached to a symbiotic monster who could take over my body and make me some weird superhero hybrid thing. Also a story of "Elementary, my dear Watson" jokes and Doctor Who marathons aplenty. [asm movieverse; flash-centric]
1. flashback

i. flashback

His jeans are coated in a thin layer of grime and his Spider-Man hoodie is an entire shade darker than it was when he pulled it on this morning, but somehow all Peter can find to say to him is, "Why are you sleeping on a bench?"

The issue is, there's really no answer to that won't make both of them seem like idiots. "Parker," he sighs, resisting the urge to dig the heels of his palm into his eyes because as long as there are stars in the sky it is too fucking early for this shit, "when people are asleep, it's usually because they are _tired_. T-i-r-e-d. Say it with me now: tiiiiiiiie – "

"You know what I mean, Flash." Peter sighs heavily, like _he's_ the one who's been woken up at approximately two in the morning in the bitter cold on a park bench a mile away from his house. "Why aren't you sleeping at home? You're aware there's school tomorrow, right?" And that's the million dollar question, isn't it, and oh what Flash would give to be able to say 'I was too tired to make it there'. Or maybe 'there's no school tomorrow you nutso'. He would very much like no school tomorrow.

"My mom's working on a project and she wanted everyone out of the house," he says evenly, and it doesn't even sound like a lie to him, go him, he's really gotten better at this. "My plans to stay the night with my friend got cancelled. Going back would've been super embarrassing." His hand curls instinctively on the handle of the bag of overnight clothes he'd packed, because even if that story is a dead lie he wasn't fucking stupid when he left home for the night.

"So you slept on a _bench_?" Peter demands, idly spinning the wheels of his board the way he does when he's nervous or stressed. He's looking pretty good for somebody who allegedly rides his skateboard out in the middle of the night for no apparent reason; his blue turtleneck bunches at the shoulders and his jeans sag a little, but his hair is (for once) combed to the point of relatively small puff levels, and he seems wide awake.

"I didn't have anywhere else," Flash grumbles.

"It's March!"

"I'm a big boy, Parker. I can survive a night in the cold."

Peter lets out a frustrated sigh, grabbing his hair like he's resisting the urge to pull it out and, yup, there go the puff levels again. "What were you going to do? Wake up when the sun came up, change in a public bathroom, and just wait at school until it started?"

"Well, yeah," Flash snorts, because _duh_. "Can I go back to sleep now? Because I'm really tired. Like. I am _really_ fucking tired, Parker, and there's track practice tomorrow that I need to be prepared for."

Of course, being prepared for track is hardly an issue. He already skips lunch to sleep in the back of the library (because as much as he likes his friends, he is just way too tired to make it through the whole day without a nap halfway through), and sleeping through calculus is regular enough that Mrs. Steinbech will occasionally provide a pillow for him, but his morning classes can be hard if he's not ready for them. Flunking science is not an option. Gwen will kick his ass if he doesn't at least get a B, and his dad will do way worse than that if he doesn't get an A.

Peter is staring at him through those weird hipster glasses he wears sometimes, and while his concern is touching the entire situation is incredibly awkward. He hasn't even commented on the Spider-Man jacket yet. Parker _always_ notices when Flash wears Spider-Man stuff; his obsession is unparalleled. "What are you even doing out here right now?" Flash asks blearily, desperate to break the awkward silence.

"Huh?" Peter mumbles, pulling his backpack – wow has that been there the whole time that's slightly disconcerting – further up his shoulder as he blinks off his surprise. "Oh. I was – um." He shrugs, offering an uneven smile. "Spider-Man was fighting a guy a few blocks away, and my aunt sent me out to see what was going on, and I was gonna board back."

Flash almost summons the energy to sit up. Almost. "Spider-Man was only _a few blocks away_ and I missed him because I was _sleeping_?" he demands, groaning before letting one of his arms flop over his eyes. "This night sucks. I'm going to back to sleep so I can forget about it."

Peter snorts and mumbles something that Flash doesn't catch and honestly probably doesn't care about, but then a hand is roughly shaking his shoulder. Automatically he jumps away, scrambling to the other side of the bench. He's wide awake all of a sudden, eyes wide as Peter blinks at him in surprise. He mentally curses his instincts. "Don't touch me," he says with a voice that definitely does _not_ catch, because when Peter's pressed him against a wall and he doesn't have anywhere to flinch to its fine, his uncle has just died, he can forgive that, but regular touching under normal circumstances – no. No. Never.

"Sorry," Peter manages, staring blatantly, hand suspended in midair where he'd held Flash's shoulder before it drops. His fingers clench into a fist at his waist and he swings his arm back in forth like it's been his intention all along. "I – " he hesitates for a moment before picking out his words. "If you want to, you can sleep at my house for the night."

There's a long moment of silence where the wheels on Peter's skateboard go at about 90 miles per hour judging by how fast his hand is tugging on them, and then Flash shrugs and says, "Yeah, sure, whatever."

Peter's eyebrows disappear into his hairline as Flash jumps up and stretches, wincing at the ache in his neck from the awkward angle he'd tried to sleep at. "Just like that?" he demands as Flash tosses the strap for his bag over his shoulders, shrugging it into a less awkward position.

"Unless you're taking back the offer now, which would be a dick move, even for you," Flash hums, taking a step forward before stumbling to a stop and yawning widely. "Okay, I have no idea where your house is. Maybe you should lead the way."

Paeter is still staring at him like he's grown a second head, so Flash makes a sweeping motion in the general direction of the street and lets his eyebrows inch up his forehead in impatience. Peter's entire body shudders as he shakes himself out of his weird trance; he steps ahead of Flash, still watching him like he needs mental help. "The road is ahead of you," Flash reminds him wryly.

"Oh. Yeah, I – knew that." Peter forces himself to face forward, marching stiffly towards a row of street lamps.

The silence, if possible, is even more awkward now that they're both fully awake to enjoy it, so Flash decides to take matters into his own hands. "So who was he fighting?" he hums, working to keep his tone casual. "Spider-Man, I mean. You saw him, right?"

"Yeah, I saw him," Peter grumbles, eyebrows knitting together. "You know that weird black suit Spider-Man wore a few weeks ago that nobody liked?"

"Yeah," Flash frowns.

"Well, he was wearing that." Peter is rolling the wheels of his board again, staring thoughtfully into the distance. "I think he called himself…Venom? He was really creepy. Super long tongue. Terrifying fangs. The works." He shrugs idly. "He didn't get unmasked, so I don't know who the person is, but – he seemed older than Spidey. And a lot more dangerous."

"He'll get caught," Flash reassures, swinging his bag over so that he could intertwine his fingers behind his head. "Don't worry your pretty little head, Parker."

Peter's lips twitch. "You got a lot of faith in the police force."

"I have no faith in the police force," he snorts, thinking of his father and company. "I have faith in Spider-man, because he doesn't dick around like they do."

There's a long moment before Peter mumbles something under his breath, ears scarlet, and Flash sighs. "This is, like, the fourth time tonight you've whispered something and assumed I can hear it, Parker. Hate to say it but we don't all have your radar ears."

"I was just _saying_," Peter scowls, leveling a glare in the general direction of Flash's smug grin, "that I didn't know you had such a thing against authority figures. I always figured you were one of those mindless guys who always followed the higher ups." He's very matter-of-fact about his insults, the way he always seems to be, throwing the words at Flash's face almost casually. He rolls his eyes. It's been a long time since Peter's insults have bothered him.

"Lots of stuff you don't know about me, Parker," he grins, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at the taller teen's back. Peter snorts but thankfully doesn't mutter anything this time. The silence subdues into something more comfortable, now, and Flash finds himself relaxing, half-asleep standing up, because it _is_ 2 A.M. after all.

That's about when he feels the tongue on his neck.

It's slimy to the touch, and it wakes him up in an instant; his back tenses and he opens his mouth to say something. Before any sound can come out, though, the tongue slithers around his throat until its completely encased and squeezes until he can't breathe, much less choke out anything remotely resembling words. His arms drop from behind his neck as he reaches up to claw at it, gasping without air, an angry wave of panic setting in as he drops his bag.

Peter pauses at the sound of his clothes hitting the ground. "Flash - ?" he starts, turning to face him before stopping dead, blood draining from his face.

Flash can't talk, can't even breathe, but he still manages to think _Holy shit this tongue is long_ before it lifts him off the ground; he kicks at nothing as it flips him around to face the most horrifying thing he's seen in his life. Peter was right – the guy's wearing Spider-Man's black outfit with the weird, alternately-patterned white spider – but he's also wrong, because this guy has about four times the muscle of Spider-Man. His eyes have no sockets or pupils and are simple splotches of dead white on the costume, and his mouth is set to a permanent, wide grin, displaying two threatening rows of fangs and one long, slimy tongue.

"We are so hungry," the man whispers, a weird overlay of two voices at once, and Flash reaches out to kick and scratch and do anything he can to _not die today please_. He claws at the chest in front of him and comes away with some weird white gunk; the man rears back and lets Flash fall, backhanding him into a nearby wall just as he's about to hit the ground.

He must black out for a few moments, because he distinctly feels himself plunging into awareness, lying on the ground and staring blankly above him. He can't focus in on anything, but when he raises his hand he sees a long slash across his palm, blood mingling with the gooey stuff he'd managed to claw from the man's suit. His right leg feels weird, though not specifically painful, and he can feel a nice line of bruises that'll be on his back tomorrow, but mostly the only thing he can concentrate on is the pounding in his head and the way he still can't breathe. His throat burns.

There's a roar next to him, and he turns his head just in time to see the giant man fall to the ground, clawing at his mouth. Flash breathes deeply through nostrils before letting his eyes drift close, thinking mournfully of his bag of clothes, which have probably been ripped to shreds by now.

"Hey, buddy," says a gentle voice, and he opens his eyes and _holy shit Spider-Man is right in front of him_.

"Oh my god," Flash manages, tasting blood in his mouth for the first time. "Oh my god."

"Hey, it's alright," Spider-Man reassures, hands hesitating over his torso like he's not sure where or how to proceed. "You're gonna be alright. You're fine." Though it's physically painful, Flash manages to make himself focus on the masked man's face, reaching up to grasp tightly at the fabric of his costume.

"Parker," he manages to coax out, which is neither specific nor eloquent but whatever, it gets the job done.

Spider-Man tenses, completely still for a moment. "What?"

"Parker," Flash repeats, and god, it _hurts_ to talk so loud. "Peter. That guy – over there." He waves his other hand impatiently in the general direction of the black-clad villain. "Is he…y'know…okay?" Because if _Flash_ hadn't been eaten then there'd been only one option left, and god help his poor soul if it turns out that it's because _he_ escaped that Peter died.

The hero lets out a long breath as his shoulders relax. "He's fine," Spider-Man reassures, drawing his hands back before letting them hover hesitantly once more. "He thinks he recognizes the killer. Trying to remember his name for me."

Flash snorts under his breath. "Wasn't even worried about me," he complains, though his grip falls from Spider-Man's shoulder and his breathing evens out a little.

"He's terrified for you," Spider-Man reassures evenly. "Otherwise he wouldn't have sent me over here to check on you."

Flash manages a sleepy smile. "Nerd." He yawns widely.

Spider-Man finally reaches down to rest a hand beneath his back. "I'm going to carry you to the hospital now."

Flash instinctively recoils and he hates himself for it. "Don't touch me," he mumbles, half-asleep and angry at himself.

"I won't hurt you," Spider-Man reassures, and though his grip is still firm he draws back a little, waiting for the go-ahead, just in case.

Flash curls up into him and welcomes him, finally. "I know you won't," he sighs before falling asleep.

+x+

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

so i was lamenting the fact that flash thompson probably was not going to be the lead character in the/a venom spin-off of the amazing spider-man

and i was like "THEY COULD TOTALLY MAKE A VERSION OF IT THAT SATISFIES BOTH COMIC PURISTS AND FLASH THOMPSON FANS"

then i thought about how they could do that

and here we are

so yeah the attempt is to follow as much comic canon as i can but take some artistic liberties for myself? and since im writing this to be in around the same timeframe as the amazing spider-man 2 (which flash will also be a character in wtf are the writers thinking), theyre still in high school, though close to the end of it, which means that flash has yet to be in the military. or like. lose his fucking legs.

so yeah. concrit is always welcome, and i hope you enjoyed reading!


	2. flash a smile

ii. flash a smile

"…concussion," the doctor is saying when Flash wakes up, voice muffled by the almost-closed door. "Sprained ankle, cracked rib, plenty of lost blood. Your friend was very lucky; a hit like that should've broken quite a few of the bones in his body." There's a rustling of paper so loud that it stings, and Flash instinctively shuts his eyes against the cold white of the room and clenches his fists in the sheets beneath him.

"How long until he wakes up?" asks another hushed voice; it only takes Flash a moment to place it, and when he does he can't resist the urge to let his lips curl up at the edges. Aw, he _does_ care.

"Anywhere between a few hours and another day," the doctor replies, voice slightly gruff, and the machine next to Flash skips a beep.

This is apparently something worth causing a national fucking issue over, because almost immediately the door bursts open; he cracks his left eye open the tiniest bit to find a lean doctor leering at him approximately two inches away. Flash lets out a (very manly) squeak and instinctively throws his arms in front of him to shield himself, accidentally knocking the man's glasses off and sending him stumbling away from the bed. He grimaces and then shuts his eyes.

"Sorry," offers a voice over the doctor's shoulder.

Flash pulls a face in the general direction of the sound. Judging by the snicker, he's pretty far off the mark, but he's not willing to open his eyes to check. "Oh no, not you," he complains aloud, wincing as the jibe makes his head throb. Even the pinprick of thought for a simple comeback like that is too much for him at the moment.

Still, Flash squints ever so slightly beneath his eyelashes and right there, in the flesh, is his best friend Mark Raxton, carrying a mockingly large pink bouquet of roses. His lips are so permanently full that he's often asked who he got into a fight with, his hair a dark black that almost mocks his pale face, and his clothes and hairstyle make him look, as usual, look one of those douchebags who holds up "Girls without makeup are beautiful :)" signs and edits glitter into them. Thankfully, he's never actually gotten to that point before, but Flash is just waiting to find the photoset on Facebook and never let him hear the end of it afterwards. He waves cheerily. "It's not exactly my idea of perfection to see your ugly mug, either."

"Mr. Thompson," the doctor interrupts, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and coming to a stand-still, "seeing as you have been unconscious since oh-two-oh-three AM this morning, the staff feels it is only fair to inform you as to what has happened."

"Can I have some Tylenol first?" Flash interrupts, eyes still squeezed tightly shut.

"Wimp!" Mark hollers. He probably has the gall to look innocent, too. Bastard.

"You cried when you stepped on a lego, you dick," Flash snorts, though it hurts way more than it's worth.

"Hey, man, no hatin'. Legos are masters of disguise and pain."

The doctor clears his throat, sounding sufficiently irritated with the (admittedly slightly over-the-top) shenanigans of the two teenage boys. "As I was _saying_," he grumbles, "you were, I believe you are aware, caught in a fight between the vigilante known as Spider-Man and his enemy Venom. Though the vigilante escaped, Venom has been identified as Eddie Brock and is in custody at the moment, I'm sure you will be happy to hear. Peter Parker carried you over here. He said that you had been thrown against a wall and hadn't been breathing well."

"Shit," Flash groans, ignoring the indignant squawking noise in the general direction of the doctor. "Parker's okay, right? You checked him over?" He distinctly remembers Spidey saying that Peter was okay, but considering the care he has towards his own injuries, it's reasonable to think that he could overlook some gaping problems on other people.

"There was nothing wrong with Mr. Parker other than a few bruises." The doctor is _snarling_ now, and Flash figures it's probably a good time to shut up and let the man do his job. "You, however, are another story. It would probably be a good idea for us to keep you overnight. Your parents have, of course, been contacted. Your father will be visiting once he gets off work. You won't be able to do any sports for a few weeks, I'm afraid." He winces, but the doctor plows on. "The visiting period total is thirty minutes. _Don't_ waste it." His shoes clack against the ground as he leaves, and though his eyes are closed, Flash suspects the man is throwing glares over his shoulder the entire time he's leaving.

Mark lets out a low whistle as the door slams. "I think he may be a little irritated," he deadpans, the end of the hospital bed squeaking as he seats himself on it.

Tentatively, Flash opens his eyes. They adjust a little better to the unnatural whiteness this time, and though he still can't focus on the boy in front of him, he can at least look in his general direction. "Nice flowers," he hums, waving his hand at the fancy pink bouquet. "This you coming out to me, Raxton? I gotta say I'm flattered."

"You wish you were attractive enough for me," Mark snorts, but he offers Flash the flowers anyway. "Randy and I skipped physics to pick 'em up for you. Everybody chipped in." His large lips twitch at the edges. "Sally looked like she was going to hunt the Brock guy down and murder him herself. She'd probably be here herself if she didn't have a date with Isaac tonight."

"Thank god," Flash breathes, and Mark laughs out loud. Sally's a lovely girl, really, but she has more energy than a five year old hyped up on enough sugar to kill small mammals. "So the others couldn't make it?"

"We didn't know when you were going to wake up," Mark explains, fingers bunching the fabric of the blanket beneath him. "Kong started a pick-up game down at the court. I was going to head over after I delivered those," he nods at the flowers, "if you didn't wake up. Band practice was after that, too, and then I have to help my stepmom and stepsister move in."

"Oh man, I forgot that was happening." Flash winces sympathetically as Mark pulls a face at him. "Better you than me."

"I'll keep that in mind next time you need a favor," Mark snorts wryly. They fall quiet after that. Flash shifts uncomfortably; he doesn't want to keep Mark from his game, but he doesn't want to be _alone_, and honestly there's no one he'd rather have with him. Besides, his fellow basketball player seems perfectly content to sit there and smirk into the silence.

"Hey." Mark's voice beats the silence over its head with a metaphorical broom. "What were you really doing out on the streets? Parker told that doctors that you had plans that got cancelled, but…" He trails off meaningfully, and oh man this is the hardest decision ever because there hasn't been a single time in his entire life that he's lied to Mark and gotten away with it but he _can't_, he can't he can't oh god no he can't.

"I couldn't stay in that house anymore," he settles for finally, because it's the truth, dammit, but it's not everything. "Mom was going to be at a business meeting until late and, you know, Jesse's all the way in New Jersey. It was just me and Dad, Mark. I couldn't. I can't." He lets his head drop back onto the pillow and breathes deeply through his nose, stubbornly telling himself that no, breathing doesn't hurt. "I just needed to get away for one night, that's all."

The truth rings loud in his last sentence, because he doesn't think he's capable of staying away from the house for very long; the guilt would eat at him. He deserves what he gets. If he would just try harder, get better grades or something, he'd be fine, so until that happen he has to bear through the punishment.

He can almost feel the heat of Mark's scowl radiating through his forehead. "You can always come to me if you need, dickface," he snorts. "Or _any_ of us."

"Sally would punch my entire family if I let her near them." Mark snorts. "It's true, don't deny it. I'm fine on my own, anyway." He deserves it. It's his fault. So until he's covered the bases (e.g. fixing himself to his dad's liking), he's not going to ask for any help he doesn't need, even if it means hiding basically his entire home life from even the people closest to him.

The conversation seems like it's going to be a long one, so he's just starting to settle into the mattress when the window next to them shatters.

+x+

"This is really not your week," Mark says matter-of-factly as the two of them tug on the rope binding their wrists.

"Thank you for your fascinating and unique input," Flash deadpans, letting his chin fall to his chest as his head pounds. _God_, getting knocked out with a board to the head when you already have a concussion _hurts_. At least there's a blindfold filtering all of that pesky light stuff away from his eyes. "I'll be sure to categorize under the 'No shit, Sherlock' file, right in the very back of my brain where I keep information like 'Big Bird is a bird that is big' and 'The Cookie Monster likes cookies'."

"He likes carrots now."

"I will punch every single asshole who tells me that Cookie Monster doesn't like cookies anymore because that is just not physically possible."

"Alright, have fun awash in your strange delusion, then." Flash thinks that Mark shrugs behind him, but he can't really tell, what with the wooden backs of the chairs separating their skin. "Blue's Clues was a better TV show anyway."

"Oh _hell_ no," Flash starts before the masked evil guy yells "Will you two _shut up?_" from the next room. Flash thinks they're probably in some sort of run-down warehouse, appropriate to the cliché, but since he can't actually see anything, all he knows is that he distinctly recognizes the voice as Chameleon (as the closeted #1 Supporter of Everything Spider-Man Does Ever, he makes it a habit to recognize every single villain he's ever face just because he can) and that for some reason he's being held hostage.

Wait, why _is_ he being held hostage?

"Why are we being held hostage?" he calls over a distinct clanging noise and a lot of Russian cursing. "You have no reason to think that Spider-Man cares for us. He probably doesn't even know we're here."

"He's not _supposed_ to know you're here until tomorrow," Chameleon yells back, still grumbling in another language under his breath. "That's part of the plan. The _master_ plan. That is going to totally kick his ass and let me rule the world."

"I'm detecting a hint of villainy," Mark joins in the conversation. "Do you perhaps dislike Spider-Man for some reason?"

"I can't imagine why kicking Spider-Man's ass would help you rule the world, but I'll respect your life choices, man," Flash agrees amicably. "Anyway. Hostages. Why us?"

"You know, for a kid who supposedly has one of the worst concussions known to mankind, you're asking a lot of questions," Chameleon snarls, and he sounds a lot closer to the two of them now; the distant clanging can still be heard, but it seems to be dimming.

"For some reason, the will to survive is most important," Flash hums. Or at least, he's assuming that's what's happening. He can't imagine any other reason that his head's hurting less and less by the minute.

Chameleon manages a disgruntled sigh before, by the sound of it, walking somewhere to Flash's right. "For some reason, Spider-Man seems to have a weakness for policeman's children," the Russian observes drily. "I just got lucky with the other one here." There's a sharp smacking sound and Mark yelps. "Now be quiet, I have work to do."

Flash Thompson is a violent person. It's no secret – he beats up kids for calling him by his name, smashes lockers because he made a bad call in a game, punches people in the face for fouling him. He's been told so a thousand times, by his counselor, by Parker, by Gwen – by everyone who's ever met him, basically. He's dangerous. Volatile. He has the worst temper that most people have ever seen.

Only sometimes, like now when the rope that's tied him to the chair seems to be ripping apart beneath his fingers, he thinks maybe violence isn't always such a bad thing.

Chameleon doesn't seem to hear him over a cheerful Russian folktune he's whistling, so Flash takes his time brushing himself off and removing the blindfold. His blood is boiling as he stands, letting the fabric drop to the ground, before he turns and rips the rope binding Mark's wrists without even trying, gently untying the blindfold. It falls away to reveal wide, surprised eyes, and Flash just shrugs.

Then, of course, he turns and screams as he charges Chameleon head-on.

In hindsight, it probably hasn't been the best move he's ever made, since it had basically destroyed any chance of a sneak attack, but since he knocks the man out with a single blow it doesn't seem to matter. His rage dulls enough for him to realize what he's just done and he stumbles back, turning to stare wide-eyed into a large piece of glass (and it is a warehouse, look at that).

"Holy shit," he says, and it's not because he hasn't seen a mirror in a day and a half and his blond hair is disheveled and his eyes are not quite the blue of the bags beneath them, and it's not because for once instead of looking muscular he looks frail and weak and distressed in ways he can't explain. No, it's not because of that.

It's because the tendrils that have stretched across his skin without him realizing have formed a Venom symbol on his chest.

+x+

for some reason in all of the flash fics ive read the only people you see him hang out with are peter and gwen and theyre clearly not the only friends he has

so i took this as a great excuse to casually promote mark raxton to a main character because Mark Fucking Raxton man

this was going to be updated like 5 days ago but nobody told me i wasnt allowed to take my laptop to disneyworld sobs

marks appearance is based on tom sturridge because headcanon celebrities #yolo


End file.
